the Community is Suffering

A note left in the suggestion box at my job:

"I protest the discontinuation of frozen onion rings. I come here to buy a steak and onion rings. If no onion rings, no steak!"

This is maybe a week after a woman demanding organic rotisserie chickens with herbs said without the aforementioned chickens "the community is suffering". This is obviously a person that has never experienced suffering or doesn't know the meaning of the word.

These are the same people that characterize the absence of their favorite flavor of Halo Top as an "outrage". Human trafficking is an outrage. An out-of-stock Salted Caramel gelato is a minor inconvenience, at best.

Retail is more challenging than people think. It takes every fiber of my willpower to hold my tongue sometimes.

I wake up at 6AM and lay in bed wondering if this is really my life or if I woke up in someone else's body. There is a paper plate with corn chip fragments on it and a glob of congealed cheese dip. No, it's definitely my body.

I hit snooze until I can't hit it anymore. Perhaps a meteor will hit Earth today and I won't have to go in. I turn on the TV while I brush my teeth. A mattress ad comes on Hulu, and it says I spend approximately a third of my life in bed. I wonder how much of my life I spend at work, but the thought is too depressing so I start to run the shower.

First the cleanser, then the exfoliator, then the trance. I close my eyes as the hot water runs over my body. Other than bed, this is my favorite place to be. I scrub my body with a whipped soap that smells like an oatmeal cookie and for a moment I feel good. I realize that time dissolves when I'm in here with my fancy soaps and my scented oils and soon I have to leave the comforting warmth of the hard water. Toner, serum, moisturizer. I look better than when I woke up, but I still feel the same. I smile in the mirror, practicing for later when I'll have to do this over and over again even though I don't mean it once.

Things are sure to get better. I just need to be patient. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling.

Tomorrow is another day.

Sweet and spicy, just like grandma...

I know a thing or two about grandmas. You might say I'm a grandma expert.

Hello, my name is David, and I'm a Male Grandma. I feel better already.

My special abilities are thoughtful gifts and soup. I am beloved of animals and babies. I know my way around a garage sale. I strongly believe that food solves most problems. I require hugs to maintain my magic. Grandma Magic.

What does any of this have to do with the McDonald's commercials other than repeated and deliberate use of the word "grandma"? I won't answer that or any of your other questions, Becky.

I've often been described as motherly. At first, I was insulted by this. My latent masculinity programming would automatically go on the offense. Motherly? Excuse you? The Masculinity Protocol doesn't allow for comparisons to any female characteristic, least of all that of a mother. As I grew and matured, I came to realize that being compared to a mother wasn't an insult. The people that were saying it were people close to me, so their intent was not to ridicule or emasculate me. I'm caring and empathetic like a mother. A compliment. Never been good at taking those. Where was I going with this?

I notice when people get haircuts. This startles some people, especially men. To the straight male mind, when I say "Hey! You got a haircut. Looks good." that translates to "Yo, lemme get that dick".

I dadsplain more than I mansplain. The difference is intent. Dadspaining comes from a place of love and concern. Perhaps you don't know the proper way to remove an engorged tick. Allow me to dadsplain that process to you, as well as the dangers of Lyme Disease. There is an easier way to complete the task you are doing, allow me to give you an unsolicited tutorial on my superior method because I love you. It's not as bad.

I'm working through a lot right now, mentally and emotionally. My Dad passed away on August 10th. I haven't talked much about it. I don't know that I'm going to. I don't know that anything makes any sense. And that's the one thing I know for sure.

Things get weird for me. I'm sure it gets weird for everyone, but I only know from my own perception how weird it gets. Life feels like a movie I'm watching. I feel like a spectator.

Some days, I don't feel anything. I wonder sometimes if my feelings are only the feelings of the people around me and that when I'm by myself I don't really feel anything.

I'm at the beginning of a two week break. I'm not sure what I want to get out of it other than doing some laundry and throwing away a lot of shit. The head-space I'm in right now is uncharted territory for me. Where do I go from here?

I'm trying to keep it sweet and spicy, like grandma. Maybe a little bit more spice than sugar. I want to be a more authentic me, but I'm not sure what that looks like. I don't recognize myself sometimes.

Control is really just the illusion of control. Keep the plates spinning. Figure it out. Don't stop moving.


Day 1. Rest.

Circus Peanuts

Now with Nutritionally Oriented Clowns!

Circus Peanuts originated in the 19th century in Nebraska. Some dude made them, modeled after a peanut-shaped insulation material used in barns. He distributed them once a year when the circus came to town. Hence, Circus Peanuts. Thanks, Nebraska.

They were originally orange flavored, but now they are predominantly banana flavored (but orange colored). Neither flavor makes sense to me, really. Why make it in the shape of a peanut and taste like a banana or an orange? Make it in the shape of a fucking banana and make it yellow. It's an affront to the delicacy of my nature.

Screenshot from the Circus Peanut wikipedia page. "Academics enjoying circus peanuts"? I'm not buying it.

You might be asking yourself, "Who cares, Dave? What are you going on about?"

I'm obsessed with them. We should discuss this further.

Candy falls into a few categories for me:

1. Granny Candy: Werther's Originals, those strawberry ones with the goo inside, Andes Mints, spice drops, ribbon candy, violets, Mary Janes, Tootsie Rolls, Good and Plenty, Black Jack gum.

2. that Good Good: Butterfinger, Almond Joy, Jolly Ranchers, KitKats, Peanut M&Ms, Reeses anything, Big League Chew, Twix, Nerds

3. Vom-O-Rama: candy corn, the pumpkins that are made of the same filth as candy corn, circus peanuts, those weird dots on the paper strip - what IS that?

It's no secret that I'm neurotic. I zero in on one thing and it's very distracting. Every time I see a cellophane bag full of circus peanuts, something inside me tingles. If I'm out with someone and I see a bag, I will try to get the person to buy them and eat them. No one likes Circus Peanuts, so my gentle suggestion degrades into a dare. To date, no one has ever taken that dare despite relentless goading. For sooth, I seriously doubt anyone actually buys them (Unless you hate yourself or it's a gag gift. Ooo! Christmas idea!) Are candy companies still making them just for the hell of it? Is there a big following for Circus Peanuts? Are these the kinds of things that keep me up on a Wednesday night? Truly. Who likes them? Am I friends with people that eat Circus Peanuts? Closeted Circus Peanut sympathizers? Make yourselves known. I'll be merciful.

Candy Corn is another one. I know that I hate them, yet any time they are made available I will still try one. Like, "I know I don't like these, but maybe I'm not remembering it right. Let me try one just to make sure."

Wash it down with a Kombucha. What is wrong with everyone? Kombucha does not taste good. It tastes like seltzer and apple cider vinegar and yeast queefs. Don't kid yourself.

I thought this entry was going to be about Circus Peanuts, but clearly it has shifted gears and is now just about stuff I don't like. Let's continue.

Water Chestnuts? Why are you doing this to me, Chinese Food Industrial Complex? WHO LIKES WATER CHESTNUTS?! They taste like crunchy nothing! There is no point! Don't try to sell me on the texture. Crunchy. Nothing. Bye.

Lima beans? As a child, my mother left me in a dark kitchen with a plate full of lima beans and I wasn't allowed to get up from the table until the lima beans were done. F*ck lima beans.

Escargot? Never in a million years.

Creamsicles taste like poverty.

Purple flavored anything is for assholes.

I make no apologies.

Science Fairs and Underwire

I attended my first 3rd grade science fair today. You're probably thinking, "But you don't have children. Isn't it a little creepy to be going to a 3rd grade science fair?" Yes. But, I do know a 3rd grader.

That sounds creepy too; allow me to clarify.

I helped my boss's daughter, Bennie, with her science project. She made nebula jars and painted a picture of a NGC 3132. Naturally, I was delighted to be invited to the science fair to see her in action. I also met an interesting young man that used lemons to conduct electricity. So there's that.

Fig 1.1 Nebula Jar. Thanks, Pinterest!

Fig 1.2 NCG 3132. Thanks, Hubble Telescope!

* * * 

Interesting fact: When Bennie was 6, she told me she was going to wait until I was asleep and shave me without shaving cream.

Once, I absentmindedly said something was "fugly" in front of her because, being in jewelry design, that's a word we throw around a lot. If you are unfamiliar, it is a portmanteau of f*ck and ugly. Fugly. It's an industry term.

She smiled at me like a child of the corn and said, "What does that mean? Fun and ugly?" She was clearly toying with me because after a beat, she said, "The F word?"

"You didn't hear that from me. I was never here." I said, before fleeing.

Some kids are too smart.

* * *

Back to the Science Fair!

As I toured the auditorium, there were a number of impressive displays, none of which were made by these children. I appreciate a sloppy project that was clearly done by an actual child. What I cannot abide is a project that was obviously done by a parent. As a child that always did his own projects, I take issue.

That's a pristine space shuttle made of milk cartons, Megan. Too bad you don't have the motor skills necessary for the construction of such a vehicle.

I'm very impressed by your expertly crafted polymer clay scale model of the solar system, Chastity. But I highly doubt you have a steady enough hand to paint Jupiter with such accuracy.

Oh, Blake. You aren't fooling anyone with your perfectly aligned phases of the moon poster. Look how straight these lines are! I know grown men who can't draw a straight line! I know grown men who can't pronounce the word "gibbous"! 

I'll take a shoebox full of  badly painted foam balls and scotch tape any day of the week. I don't want stenciled, perfectly spaced, letters and battery powered water features! I want chicken-scratch and potato lamps!

The adorable Lemon Boy obviously had help from his Dad, which he mentioned during his absolutely heart-melting presentation. But it was messy and clearly he did it with his father. And it worked! He flicked a switch and a light went on! WITH LEMONS! Thanks, citric acid!

I used to want to have kids. Then I didn't. Now? The jury is still out. Because it can go a few different ways. Village of the Damned seems like the most likely scenario, but you never know. Might get lucky and get a lemon kid. Or a kid that will wait until I'm asleep and shave me without shaving cream.

* * *

Later today, on our way to lunch, I found a lonely piece of underwire on the floor of my co-worker's car. I didn't realize that's what it was at the time, but still I picked it up and positioned it under my boob and said, "What's this?"

Lucky guess.

She wasn't sure how it ended up there. #mysteryoftheday

How did a solitary piece of underwire manage to free itself from it's bra prison? Naturally, we all assumed it was some kind of sordid nude encounter that took place in the car, but she assured us that was not the case. Some kind of struggle? Surely not. Perhaps we will never know.

* * *

For one reason or another, I refer to a naked breast as a "raw breast". I didn't realize this was wrong until it was pointed out to me. I persist in my terminology unhindered.

"G, do you have to try bras on?" I asked innocently.

"Yeah, you have to." She replied patiently.

I immediately panicked, imagining hundreds of women trying on the same bra.

"You mean you put your raw breasts in it?"

"My raw breasts? First of all, who calls it a raw breast? I'm not a chicken. It's the same thing as you trying on a shirt."

I relaxed, "Ok, I see your point."

* * *

Today, I got very cold and wet in a hideous slop storm. I went to an elementary school that smelled like all elementary schools smell - industrial cleaner and tempera paint. I danced around my office with a hank of beads on my head like a wig. I watched an Egyptian themed stripper video with a coworker recovering from ass-augmentation surgery. I designed some bracelets. I ate a hamburger.

What is the moral of today's story? All that glitters isn't gold? A stitch in time saves nine? A closed mouth catches no feet?

I'm not sure. Lemon Boy probably knows.

Food for thought, mostly poison

Voodoo Cake

It is said that when a cake is cut, sugarcane fields can be heard crying in the warm Barbados breeze.

* * *

Define “Testicle”

More than a quiz, but a little less than a test.

* * *

After Canada conquered the US in the early 21st century, the Maple Doctrine was adopted. This document overwrote the American Constitution and many of the US's unwritten rules.

Perhaps the most memorable revision was Article 7, clause 32; the 5-second rule does not apply to shag carpeting.

* * *

"I can't believe that boat is named Wet Dream," I said to Nanny.

She turned to Poppa to clarify.

"It's the name of the boat in Margaret's yard," she said to him in a hushed tone.

"Did Margaret name it?" I asked.

"Probably. She's a drunk," she said matter-of-factly.

* * *

Georgina on Hitler:

"Anyone who uses their oven for anything other than storage is a complete wanker."

* * *

A Postcard from Aunt Mary:

Dear David,

         Since you are our family's Hemingway, I thought it most appropriate to send you this postcard from Key West where Hemingway lived and did a lot of his writing. I visited his home today and thought of you - the next Ernest Hemingway!

          I love you <3 <3 <3

          Aunt Mary

PS - Hemingway had four wives and sixty-two cats!

* * *

Getting Laid at the MET

I tried that once. It didn't really work out.

* * *

Mary Meets God

               Human life, and all life for that matter, concluded in a single rainy afternoon at the Porchlight Grill in Midland Park, New Jersey.  Mary was sitting at the bar on her break after waiting tables for six hours.  She was about to ravage a nice juicy hamburger, when from the corner of her eye she spotted something moving on the floor.  She hopped off her bar-stool and put her glasses on.

               Before her, on the tiled floor, was a large cockroach.  As not to cause a stir, she crushed the enormous bug under her black tennis shoe.

               And so, the very fabric of the Universe unraveled.

Mostly Drivel

Do you ever wake up and wish life was more like a Zoobilee Zoo rerun? I do sometimes. Who wouldn't want Ben Vereen dressed as a leopard narrating their life?

I think about stuff like that all the time. My mind is a virtual wasteland of nostalgia and mottled memories.

* * *

I've been reading through some of my old composition notebooks to see if there is anything worth while. In the middle of a short Resident Evil fanfic, I wrote this: "Sometimes I catch myself pretending I'm a real teenager."

* * *

Did you know:
As a child, I had a one-legged lesbian neighbor that moved to Budapest? True story.

 * * *

Me: Mom?

Mom: [from the living room] What?!

Me: The microwave popcorn didn't work.

Mom: Good! We'll mail it to Orville Redenbacher so he can shove it up his ass!

* * *

Uptown Jackie Red + Midtown Jackie Green = Downtown Jackie Brown

* * *

Can you, in good taste, use a white lighter after Labor Day?

* * *

Put a little lift in your day. Try new caffeinated Kotex.

* * *

Me: Amy, can you pass the salt?

Amy: Uh, Pokémon, what's the magic word?

Me: [pause] Vagina?

Amy: [passes me the salt]

* * *

"There are no more oil-based concealers to conquer." - Alexander the Great

* * *

"In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."
-from "Divine Songs in Easy Language for the Use of Children", Issac Watts

Dear "Dog Mom"

I was driving my boyfriend to his car this morning because the parking ordinances in my town are criminal, but I digress. En route, I got stuck behind an SUV going 17mph. Said SUV had an oval sticker on the trunk door announcing to the world, in case anyone was interested, that she is a "Dog Mom".

My road-rage is epic, eclipsed only by my mother's which can be accurately described as legendary. She once, without any segue, explained to me what we were having for dinner, called some random motorist a tw*t, and then told me she loved me.

Interesting Fact: Pointless bumper stickers send me into a frenzy of snobbish rage.

If you feel the need to indicate details about yourself on the outside of your car, you are the wrong sort of person. You are in the same class of people that puts peanut butter in the refrigerator: unwashed savages. I don't care about your honors student, your lacrosse team, or that you break for squirrels. Your stick-figure family is offensive to my delicate sensibilities. VT, LBI, CA, MV, ACK, OBX - what am I supposed to glean from this other than you are certainly a white chick?

Also, Jesus Fish sounds delicious.

Where was I going with this?

[10 minute tea break]

Dear Dog Mom,

You probably don't remember me, but I was stuck behind you while you drove 8 mph below the lowest speed limit possible. This was bad enough, but you had a sticker on your trunk that said "Dog Mom". I can only assume that this information was meant for me due to it's location, though I'm not sure why your relationship to your dog is pertinent to my driving experience.

My car has a decal of Ursula the sea witch on my rear driver's side window. Based on this, please assume that the next time I get stuck behind you, I will steal your voice and then your man.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Citizen

Inaugural Post, Maiden Voyage, Champagne Bottle Assault

I tend to ramble and generally don't conform to pesky things like sequence. This is done purposely, not to confuse you, dear reader, but rather to break Time down into its basic components...of which there are none.

I'm a scatter-brain. An addle-pate. If I were a Furry, I would be a raccoon.

I'm not sure what this blog is even about. Are you? Why did you come here? We may never know the answers to these questions.

A little bit about me: I'm a cisgender white gay man. I try not to mansplain, but I definitely dadsplain which I don't think is as bad because it means I love you. None of my pants fit right now, so I'm trying to eat more vegetables and less pizza. I'm in a relationship with a sweet man that both delights and enrages me in the same breath. I just had some chia pudding.

I'm also a children's book author, something I never thought I'd be saying. Sure, I wrote a lot when I was young. Mostly sad poems and homoerotic short stories about my classmates, but I probably wasn't alone in that. It wasn't until my 30's that I grabbed an opportunity to participate in a collective writing effort called "The Cardboard Kingdom" organized by gaymous (gay famous, for the laymen) artist and author, Chad Sell. After two years of collaboration, we are looking at a release date of June 5, 2018. Thanks, Knopf!

When most kids were doing normal suburban white people things, I was brewing potions and lip-syncing in the bathroom mirror in my mother's make-up. While my mother was at work, I was choreographing my baby brother, Dylan, to Joan Osborne songs. Pretty standard stuff.

I always wanted to be a writer, but alas, bills needed to be paid and so I was entrenched in retail Purgatory for the better part of  20 years. I learned a lot, mostly how to interface with the general public in an amiable manner.

Some notes on the general public:

1. The General Public is populated mostly by simulated beings whose soul purpose is to inhibit you in one way or another.

2. The General Public cannot be reasoned with and so surrender is usually best.

3. The General Public does not agree with anything you do or say.

4. Happiness and the General Public are mutually exclusive.

5. Avoid the General Public.

My exposure to the General Public is extensive, though in recent years I have receded into a slightly less social paradigm I'm calling "hermit chic". You should try it.

More to come. Mostly drivel.